this city has its fingers wrapped around my throat
by bergamots
Summary: an ever-growing collection of answered writing prompts, cross-posted from tumblr. (multiple pairings and characters throughout). Chapter 9: "I learned that General Grumman is my maternal grandfather. He reached out to me earlier this week for a meeting. He wants to make up for lost time." It does not take much effort to connect the dots. "You don't believe him."
1. you can have your wódka, i'll have wine

_prompt: "pls quench my thirst. pls."_

 _pairing: royai_

 _characters: riza hawkeye, roy mustang, rebecca catalina_

* * *

Roy would love to say that this night was going well – and it had been, until Catalina had _conveniently_ 'found them' at his aunt's bar and invited herself to spend the rest of the night with him and Riza. It had only taken half a bottle of Drachman _wódka_ for the two of them to get drunk, and he was a little angry at Rebecca for ruining one of the few 'date nights' he could have with Riza. His relationship with the woman had always been a bit catty, but it didn't help that she was always trying to nick Riza away for a _girl's night_ – but this was the icing on the cake. She had never been quite so blatant before but Roy was inebriated enough to know that if he didn't call it quits now he was going to say something rude (but _completely_ true) and then he'd be left with a drunk and angry Riza, and he didn't like his chances of surviving that.

He slipped out of the booth and made some comment about paying the tab and Riza made a noise of discontentment, leaning further onto Rebecca's shoulder as she pouted at him.

"Can't we stay a bit longer?" she asked, trying her best not to laugh as Rebecca's hand snaked around her shoulder and settled over her bare chest. Roy wanted to laugh at the audacity of the situation – he generally wasn't the jealous sort of guy – but he was tired and unwilling to pick a fight.

He shook his head. "I think you've had enough, Riza," he replied. "We should call it a night."

"How _sexist_ of you Mustang," Rebecca commented, leaning forward slightly. "I think we can decide for ourselves what we want to do." She turned to Riza and cocked her head to the side. "Right?"

Riza looked at her for a moment, the barest hint of a frown beginning between her eyebrows before she shook her head and carefully extracted herself from Rebecca's arm.

"Nah, he's got a point 'Becca. Besides, you said you have an early train to catch tomorrow – and I'm sleepy." She held out her hand and Roy grasped it on instinct, pulling her out of the booth. Riza stumbled a little as she came to her feet, leaning against Roy as she smoothed down her skirt.

"Do you need a taxi home?" she asked as Rebecca handed her trenchcoat over. Rebecca shook her head.

"I'm fine, Riza – could do with the walk anyway." Her eyes flicked over to Roy's and she ducked her head before laughing quietly to herself. "Don't worry about the tab, sir," she said, running a hand through her hair. "I'll cover it. You kids go have fun for me."

Roy felt a hand slip behind his waistcoat and nails scraping against the fabric covering his lower back.

"Of course, 'Becca."


	2. are you gonna save me?

_prompt: "good girl"_

 _pairing: royai_

 _characters: riza hawkeye, roy mustang_

 _warning: sexual situations_

* * *

It was hard to suppress a shiver as she felt his gloved hand drift down her spine. The texture was something that she found difficult to define even at the best of times – and now, lying on his bed with her hands gripping the sheets tightly, Riza wasn't sure she could even define what _she_ was feeling, let alone be coherent in her observations. There were the parts of her body that were reacting against the rough of his gloves – little shocks, little sparks trailing in the dips and shadows of her back – and then there were the parts that were _not_ , free from the sensation that was as uncomfortable as it was pleasurable.

She shifted slightly, angling her hips a bit lower into the bed, desperate to relieve the ache that had settled in-between her thighs, low and thrumming and _heady._ She heard him laugh softly and his hand paused over her hip, fingers curling up to her waist and _fucking shit,_ she wished she hadn't let him in on this little secret of hers: it was so much _easier_ to deal with when it was just her, alone in her bedroom with a nicked glove and a bottle of wine. Now he used this knowledge against her whenever he could – whenever he would accept paperwork from her he would deliberately arrange his fingers against hers; he'd suddenly gotten it into his head that he needed to reach for the door _just as she was reaching for the door_ _and –_

She tried to swallow a gasp as his hand shifted over to her inner thighs, rubbing against the overly sensitised skin carefully, but not higher where she wanted _needed_ it to be.

"Is this okay?" he asked, carefully moving her hair to the side, and placed a kiss on the top of her backbone. Riza huffed, rolling her shoulders back and shrugging nonchalantly.

"It's fine," she said shortly, closing her eyes momentarily as his index finger scraped against her skin harshly in pain _pleasure._

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," he replied, dropping kisses along her shoulder and grinning into her skin as he suddenly dipped between her folds and she couldn't _help it_ , it was too much and _he_ was too much and if he didn't stop teasing her she was certain to –

The angle of his fingers shifted slightly and the moan she let out was obscene. "Or do my ears deceive me?" he continued, his other hand pressing flat in-between her shoulder blades and Riza didn't need to see him to know he was smirking as her hips lifted involuntarily, seeking the friction that his fingers were barely providing.

"If you ask nicely I might listen," he teased and she bit her lip and dropped her head back onto the bed in defeat.

"Please?" she asked quietly. His fingers twisted _again_ and she cried out against the sensations. The hand resting between her shoulder blades moved up to stroke her hair and she shuddered.

"There's a good girl," he soothed. "You're doing _so well_ Riza, you're so beautiful when you're like this-" a finger sunk into her and she didn't bother to stop the moan this time, "-all hot and _wet_ just for me-"

" _Please_ , Roy," she asked again, biting her lip as a finger drifted over her clit. Every inch of her was hypersensitive and even with his glove getting steadily wetter the friction was becoming too much.

He clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Please _what_?" His fingers stilled and she whimpered a little at the sudden loss.

"Please," she managed, arching her back as best she could, hearing his uneven exhalations as she did so. "Please, _sir_."


	3. carve my errors into my skin

_prompt: "i'm sick"_

 _characters: selim bradley/pride, mrs. bradley_

 _warning: murder-y thoughts_

* * *

 _It's the little details_ he thinks as he examines his complexion in the mirror, applying the facecloth to his cheeks again. He grimaces a little at the pain – the facecloth isn't hot enough to blister his skin, but it is just enough to make him obviously flushed and unnaturally warm to touch.

Existing as a homunculus in a world inundated with humans has always presented itself with a plethora of problems, but those are multiplied even more when you're posing as a human _child_. It had been easier in his other lives – where he wasn't quite as close to the chain of command; where his act didn't need to be quite so enduring and consistent – but now they are in the final stages of the Promised Day and Pride cannot afford to slip up and give his mother any reason to be suspicious.

So here he is, locked in the bathroom down the hall from his bedroom, carefully applying not-quite scalding facecloths in a bid to act natural _unnatural_ , in a bid to act _human_.

Carefully, he pats his face dry, watching as the bright red flush begins to recede. Too much and she'll think he just wants to get off school – _of course he does, he has learnt his timetables for the_ _ **eighty-ninth time**_ and he isn't sure how much longer he can keep up this façade of the 'bright young boy' without stabbing precocious Eloise Hamner the III in the eye with a colouring pencil.

If he can manage to keep her attention for the rest of the night, his brother _father_ can slip out undetected and _Mama_ will hardly bat an eyelash in her husband's direction. Pride shrugs his shoulders and pulls out the plug in the sink, and watches the steaming water drain away, the vapour curling and evaporating before his eyes.

He has perfected the wail now – the volume, the tone, the timbre that begins it and the gravelly tinge that warbles towards the end. He knows exactly how to present himself – a little teary, exhausted and smaller than the vibrant persona he has to be _every waking second of his not-life_. He unlocks the bathroom door and turns off the light.

" _MAMA!"_ the call travels easily down the hallway and there's a pause before he hears the familiar rustle of her dress as she rounds the corner, her eyebrows pulled together.

"Selim?" she asks, kneeling down and running her hands over his shoulders. "What's wrong?"

He sniffs a little, and rubs at his eyes with his arm. "I don't feel good," he answers, making the intonation on _feel_ a little higher than normal. She raises the back of her hand to his forehead and her expression softens, gathering him swiftly into a hug.

"You've just got a little fever, that's all dear. Let's go get some medicine, and I'll call your teacher tomorrow." Her voice is warm and soft and she carefully gathers him up into her arms. _Mama_ smells of bergamot and honey and he curls his arms around her neck.

As she walks in the direction of the kitchen, her fingers absentmindedly stroke at his hair. Pride closes his eyes, trying to ignore the warm sensation settling in his chest.


	4. hope you guess my name

prompt: "you're a monster."

characters: selim bradley/pride

* * *

It's hard to _act_ consistently unaware when you are hyperaware of every footfall; every inhalation; every exhalation; every heartbeat in this household. He knows the slow creak of the third floor stairs, and the low hum of the furnace as Simon, their head housekeeper, prepares the iron monolith for another night of warmth. In some ways he feels similar to the metal box – he is anchored beyond his will and simply exists for the whims and wills of others.

It is in some ways a lonely existence – Pride does not remember the last time he was able to do something of his own volition. He has vague memories of when he first came into being – his Father had let him roam for a few years, acclimatising himself to the humans and their strange ways of living and the customs that are as ever-constant and changing as the seasons: _we give thanks for what we have, and we crave what we do not_.

It was better when his role was not important, but now Pride is given no choice in how he must act. He knows better than to begrudge the person – the _god_ – who gave him everything he is now, but he supposes even homunculi can reach their limits emotionally. If humans could hardly keep their wits around him for his sheer appearance and connections, then it is not altogether unlikely that he and his siblings could have a similar (but _obviously_ much greater) limit.

Pride does an adequate job most of the time; when he can _turn off_ the sensations and drift aimlessly in his mind.

There are the times when he doesn't do an adequate job, however – and those moments are dangerous for everyone involved.

Right now is one of those moments. Nanny Bell is looking at him with a horrified expression and Pride wills himself to calm, to remember _angelic_ and _innocent_. He admits it's not entirely her fault – such a violent reaction to a hand on the shoulder is not _normal_ under any circumstance but now Pride is unsure how to calm her down without giving her any more ammunition to what must already be running through her head – _you are a monster you are a monster you are a-_

Carefully, he blinks. Nanny Bell just stares at him. She's sweating now, and Pride can see the panic rising in her eyes and he must make a decision quickly.

"Nanny Bell," he says, carefully hitching over the syllables and he feels the revulsion in his gut as he must _weaken_ this version of himself to keep his cover – he feels the prick of tears and it is a little easier because he is _upset_ but not for scaring this woman – for almost ruining their well-laid plans; for almost having to explain to Wrath that a little _incident_ occurred; for nearly attacking what could have easily been his mo-

Pride stops that last thought before it can fully form. Nanny Bell is looking a little less terrified but her eyes are still darting frantically around the room like she expects to see something lunge for her.

 _She's still not entirely wrong_ , Pride thinks, feeling the shadows curl in the lines of his palm.


	5. hang me from my heartstrings

_prompt: "do you trust me?"_

 _pairing: edwin_

 _characters: edward elric, winry rockbell_

 _warning: mild sexual situations_

* * *

She can't pick the time or place when she realised – Edward is simply ingrained into her body like the callouses on the palms of her hands. He's always been a steady presence in her life, even when he was off travelling the world with Al in search of a miracle – there are the constants in her life like the annual sheep-shearing contest down on Crawley Station; the sound of her bantam hens clucking for food in the morning; Edward doing that weird half-smile that makes her stomach flip in strange _good_ ways when he brings her tea on an all-nighter.

It's almost stranger _now_ , when he's home all the time, helping out with firewood and doing the numbers for the business (and when did _home_ suddenly become more than what it was before? _Home_ with Granny, Al and Ed feels _very different_ to _home_ when it's just Ed and her curled up on the couch with homemade apple pie and vanilla ice-cream).

He's seeped into her bones like the ink she uses for blueprints – and Winry doesn't trust herself enough to fully understand what all those looks and smiles and _touches_ mean just yet.

She trusts Ed though. It's not like she _doesn't_ know what they all mean but– reading bad romance novels and gossiping with her old school friends over moonshine does not a learned woman make. She has the blueprints; all the parts (Winry snorts a little at her bad-but-accurate analogy) but she's never _done_ anything like this before and sometimes it feels more terrifying in a bad way than thrilling in a _good_ way.

She gasps _into? out of?_ Ed's mouth and shivers as she feels his hands (that are both _warm_ and _soft_ – Winry sometimes feels like she's still coming to grips with an Ed that is slightly more skin-and-bone than before: a part of her misses his automail arm because she worked so hard on that for _so long_ , it was her way of rooting herself in him like he did to her) and sighs as his mouth drops from hers to kiss the sensitive skin just underneath her jawbone. His fingers dip under the loose cotton singlet she wore today and splay out across her waist as her pulls her further into his space.

His lips move up to her cheekbones and Winry can already feel the tell-tale burn on the tips of her ears – if he was making her feel like _this_ when they were just kissing in the hallway then –

His fingers lightly scrape over the bottom of her ribcage and she can't help but squeak and pull back at the sensation. She feels bereft almost immediately – gone is the warmth that hid a multitude of sins and instead she's left trying to catch her breath and not meet his eyes because she is _embarrassed_ and she hates that she is and –

"Win." He speaks softly, like he does to her bantams when he wants to pick them up, and Winry is a little insulted until she realises how curled in she is – her arms are tightly across her chest and her shoulders are hunched. She _hates_ that she can't get over this fear that rears its ugly head at the most inopportune times – she _hates_ that every time it seems like she's making progress she suddenly takes a step back.

"Win." He repeats, reaching for her elbow and she lets herself be pulled back close to him. He smells like sweat and oil and carefully he unfurls a curled palm from her chest with his own. He pauses, before flattening it and extends a finger.

W I N, he begins, pressing his index finger into her palm briefly to show the end of the word.

His tracing is soft, but firm enough not to be too ticklish.

 **DO STOP YOU STOP TRUST STOP ME STOP**

The question mark he draws is long and silly and she can't help but giggle a little as he keeps tracing around and around her palm. She nods when he finally finishes.

 **WHAT STOP CAN STOP I STOP DO STOP TO STOP HELP STOP YOU STOP**

She mouths the sentence out as he traces it and she's nearly in tears by the time he finishes it.

"I- I don't know Ed," she manages, trying to pull her hand back but his grip is firm. "I just-"

He pauses for a moment, his thumbs rubbing over the flesh of her palm, before kissing the middle of it delicately.

 **SLEEP STOP TOMORROW STOP TALKING STOP**

His hand curls around hers and the other cups her face gently, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone in an achingly familiar way.

"I'm scared too, Win," he mumbles, kissing her forehead. She leans into him and squeezes his hand tightly.

 **WITH STOP ME STOP** she traces on his forearm and feels a rush of affection as his breath hitches a little and he pulls back to look at her face.

"Let's go," she murmurs, pulling on his arm as she makes her way to the stairwell.


	6. what i'd give to be unbroken

for jess. happy birthday u glitter fairy! i thought you would appreciate a character study into your fave.

 _warnings: self-harm, allusions to family abuse_

* * *

Olivier is nine when her father calls her into his study. It is one of the few places she cannot enter as she pleases in the Armstrong Estate – it is the only place where she respects that rule. It is one of the simpler rooms in the manor, overlooking the duck pond.

Her father passes her a small box. "Open it," he says imperiously.

Inside is an ornate brooch displaying the family crest. Philip drones on about 'upholding honour' and 'preserving the family values' but Olivier drowns him out, instead focusing on the details hidden away in the gold filigree. Centuries have been spent protecting this small piece of jewellery and while she understands why this is such an important moment between her and her father, Olivier finds that she doesn't care, not really.

Her gaze falls to the sword behind her father – the true heirloom of the Armstrong family. Her father is not a swordsman – he may claim to be; but Olivier has studied his technique in her tender years and can pinpoint the areas where he is sloppy, and not worthy.

"Do you understand, Olivier?" her father asks and Olivier nods, eyes never leaving the engravings running the length of the honed steel.

"Yes, Father. Thank you so much for this honour."

* * *

Olivier is eleven when the triplets are born. It is a momentous occasion – her mother had nearly died from complications during her own birth, so it's natural that a fuss is made and the attention that Olivier is so used to suddenly disappearing. She feels bereft, floating on an island that is breaking off from the one that has anchored her family together for so many years.

She feels the change then. There's a shift in her life as soon as she hears his name – Alexander Louis. He is named for both her grandfather's – both their grandfather's – and while Olivier may be young and naive and only eleven it is then that she realises she will never be enough on her own anymore.

Her father is smiling more than she has ever seen him manage, and a bitter taste is left in her mouth at the implications.

* * *

Olivier is fifteen and watching with a critical eye as her maids finish dressing her. It is the triplet's fourth birthday and no expense has been spared to celebrate. The Armstrong Manor is practically glowing with light and Olivier thinks she might enjoy this night if it wasn't for the fact that she hates the dress she's been told to wear. It's an awful moss shade that makes her look pale in a sickly way, and the collar is far too high for her liking.

She cannot breathe as her maid Annabelle fixes the brooch displaying her family crest to the hollow of her throat – it is a family heirloom and deep down Olivier knows she should be wearing it with pride, but it's hard to do so when she feels the metal pricking at her skin whenever she breathes too deeply.

Perhaps that was the point, she thinks grimly as the other maid Sara carefully brushes her long hair. Let the weight and honour silence her better than her parents ever could.

* * *

Olivier is seventeen and wandering the grounds of the estate, her tutors having long given up trying to train her in the ways of elocution and the proper way to serve tea to foreign ambassadors. She argues that she could do it in her sleep if she needed to, but she never wants nor wishes to be put in that position – one where she never has the upper hand, always waiting and whispering and _watching_.

It is spring and the gardeners are out in full force today – there are hundreds of blooms surrounding her as she ducks her way through the wisteria, the purple blossoms dropping around her like snowflakes as a breeze shifts through, scattering the flowers and floating their petals away to other parts of the gardens.

She kneels down near the duck pond, watching as the ducks approach her confidently, quacking and chirping as they nip at her for food. She tries to hide her smile. Her younger siblings had not outgrown their passion for chasing the birds whenever they saw them, and yet these animals understood she would not hurt them.

"They're very fond of you, aren't they, Miss?"

Olivier turns to see one of the gardeners approaching her on the grass. He's one of the younger ones – an apprentice, if she's correct.

Samuel. His name is Samuel.

"I suppose so," she replies, turning her head back to the small crowd around her. She fishes a shortbread biscuit out of her pocket and crushes it in her palm, scattering the crumbs over the birds. They quack some more. Olivier knows they are saying ' _thank–you_ '.

Samuel sits down next to her on the grass – he is so close she can almost feel the warmth of his skin on her own. Nanny Carter had always teased her for her cool skin – but Olivier cannot help it any more than her siblings can help themselves chasing ducks. She has always been a cool person, so perhaps she needs a warm one to complement her.

Samuel smiles at her kindly, wiping some of the sweat from his brow. He is a kind man, she thinks. Her father might disapprove – but then, he disapproves of many things she does or does not do currently.

Olivier takes a deep breath, and feels the phantom sting of the brooch on the thin skin of her throat.

* * *

Olivier is nineteen and in her bathroom with an embroidery needle, trying not to cry as she digs into her flesh carefully, removing the impurities from her skin.

There are so many. There are too many.

The work is methodical and she tried her hardest not to flinch as she scores another imperfection with surgical precision. Her blood runs in clean, long lines and drips off her elbow into the bathtub, splattering messily against the pristine white porcelain. A choked gasp escapes her and she bites on her tongue quickly, focusing on the uncomfortable warmth of her arm and her steady pulse under her fingertips as a new wave of stinging pain settles in her arm. It grounds her, makes her remember that despite her wealth and connections she is still a human and –

"Gods, _Olivier_!"

Nanny Carter stands in the doorway, hands covering her mouth in shock. There's silence for a moment, as the two women appraise one another. Nanny Carter had long been kicked out of her life – she was always _fussing_ over her, adjusting her hair and watching her with beady eyes that were too calculating for Olivier's tastes: but right now she feels a strange rush of affection for the older woman.

"Nanny," she says softly, letting her arms fall to her sides, uncaring of what a sight she must be sitting on the edge of the bathtub, with a blotchy tear-stained face that is nearly as red as her arm.

Nanny Carter walks to the cabinet under the sink, and kneels down. She rummages for a moment, before walking to sit next to Olivier on the bathtub. She has rubbing alcohol and rolls of cotton and Olivier steels herself for what is coming.

She is quiet as Nanny Carter turns on the tap above the bath and wipes off the blood with warm water. The water in the bathtub turns an ugly shade of salmon as the used cotton wool plugs the drain. The rubbing alcohol comes next, and she bites down on her lip, hard. The overwhelming tang of iron floods her mouth and she vomits into the bathtub.

Nanny Carter doesn't say anything, instead undoing her bun and carefully pulling back Olivier's hair from hanging around her head, and ties it into a loose ponytail.

"It's okay to feel, little one," she murmurs as she rubs her back in a soothing motion. Olivier tries not to compare her to her own mother, and to the last time she was touched that didn't leave a mark.

* * *

Olivier is thirty the next time she sets foot into her ancestral home. She has become wise in her time away, climbing through the ranks of the military at an astonishing pace, sometimes even outstripping her own expectations. It has not been without sacrifices: but now she has her own command and she vows to never treat them like family. They deserve more than that.

"Olivier!" her father booms, his arms open wide on the porch where her family waits. The cicadas in the air are shrieking and screaming and Olivier cannot think of a more apt symphony to accompany her homecoming. She has heard the rumours to the South, and she eyes the heir of the Armstrong family warily. Alexander Louis may be the perfect child but he is only nineteen and she remembers all too well how immature and emotional she was when she was that age. If the whispers she is hearing become more than just mere whispers, there is every chance her family will become heir-less by the end of the summer.

"Father, Mother," she replies, watching the two of them warily. No harsh words were spoken when she left all those years ago, but the silence that followed for eleven years certainly did.

There is no _welcome home_ , or _it's wonderful to have you back_. Her mother leans back in her chair, sipping on wine and a hand resting on Catherine Elle's knee. It is a display of power that Olivier has not seen in a long time and though she knows her younger sister and the mettle she has, it is only because Alex is a dutiful brother and writes to her weekly. He doesn't hide many warnings in between his ramblings about how lovely the gardens have become, or the latest soirée that they held in honour of some high-ranking military official (but it does sting that she isn't considered one herself by this point).

Part of her knows she ought to feel guilty that she left her siblings to fend for themselves against the wolves that are their parents, but Olivier also thinks that in order to become an Armstrong you must endure these hardships regardless. She knows the triplets will be more than able to protect themselves but Catherine comes with burden of being the youngest, and in some ways Olivier knows that is even worse than being the eldest.

Catherine smiles prettily, her perfect teeth glinting in the afternoon sun. It's a well-practiced smile, perfect in execution from the baring of her teeth to the crinkle of the skin around her eyes.

"It's nice to finally see my big sister," she says breathily, still smiling perfectly, the baring of her teeth becoming more vicious with every passing second. "I thought we'd never meet."

A stony silence follows and Olivier glances to her brother for an explanation. Alex simply shakes his head, and instead asks her to join him for a walk in the gardens.

Mother drinks more wine.


	7. how to find a heart

written for edween week on tumblr! i had a lot of fun exploring this idea, and i may expand further on it in future.

pairing: edwin

characters: edward elric, winry rockbell, alphonse elric

warning: animal mutilation

* * *

 _The counter transmutation to return everyone's souls was mostly fool proof._

 ** _Mostly_.**

* * *

In the weeks following that day where she woke up gasping on the ground, Winry had found herself experiencing the overwhelming feeling that something had shifted in her, and not in a good way.

It first began as small problems, little pangs and twitches that would make her put her tools down to rub at her head and hands. They came quick and sharp, and would disappear just as rapidly. Her vision would suddenly blur, and she'd walk into a room and forget why she went there in the first place.

Winry upped her water intake, and made sure to spend more time out in her small vegetable garden.

Sharp pangs eventually morphed into constant throbbing, and an inability to focus for long periods at a time. It became harder to sleep – oftentimes she would wander the paddocks surrounding her house in the hopes it would make her weary enough to pass out. The sheep would glance at her blearily, bleating as she passed them by, shying from the harsh light of the oil lamp she carried. The long grass would shift in the slight breeze and Winry would swear she heard chattering behind her. It didn't matter how quickly she spun. No one was there.

* * *

The arrival of Edward and Alphonse was a blessed relief: all of the strange symptoms and events that seemed to be plaguing her suddenly disappeared, as if they had never occurred in the first place. Winry felt free, calm, and happy. The boys kept her busy: if she had ever complained about Edward's appetite, this was nothing compared to Alphonse's. As far as she was concerned, now she was trying to feed _two_ bottomless pits instead of one.

She found herself growing less hungry as the days went on – almost every night would be a roast meal of some kind, normally lamb, but Winry couldn't find it in herself to eat anything more than a few mouthfuls. She knew that they were starting to pick up on it – Edward especially – but as far as she was concerned, it was just a phase. It would pass.

She woke one morning covered in blood and had to bite down on her arm to muffle the scream that came out. Edward stirred next to her, and she flung herself out of bed and rushed into the bathroom, desperately trying to pull off the shirt she had nicked last night. The fabric clung to her skin and she tried her best not to sob as she peeled it off her skin. The blood left pink smears all over her stomach and she realised with horror that her arms were coated in it

She heard Edward pad down the hallway, knocking softly on the locked door. "Is everything okay?" he asked, concern clearly evident despite the yawn that followed. "There was blood-"

"Y-yeah, it's fine!" she called back, quickly dumping the sodden shirt into the bathtub and running cold water, rubbing at the fabric roughly. "My period turned up, that's all."

There was a pause, and Winry could well imagine the incredulous look on his face. "Win, that amount of blood-"

"And when have you been privy to how much blood I lose being _too_ much?" she shot back, wincing a little at how harsh she sounded. "It's not as bad as it looks, I swear. I just want to clean myself up Ed – give me a few minutes."

She heard him sigh, and the sound of his hand moving over the wooden grain of the door. "I'll go make some tea," he called out as he made his way down the hallway.

* * *

It got worse after that incident – Winry would suddenly find herself missing entire hours of her day, unable to recall what she had done. She could feel Edward staring at her – and not in the way that encouraged Alphonse to make gagging noises and to yell at them to _get a room_. It was quiet, contemplative.

Edward Elric was a dangerous man when he allowed himself the time to think.

"What do you guys want for dinner tonight?" she asked, rising quickly from the sofa just as Edward began to sit down. He frowned at her, and reached for her hand but she quickly drew it into herself, rubbing at her wrist. More and more his touch was becoming like a firebrand, rather than the soft warmth she had imagined it would be. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck, and swallowed the feeling of unease.

"I want lamb," Alphonse replied, shifting on the plush armchair and adjusting the blankets wrapped around him.

Winry nodded. "I can do that."

* * *

There wasn't any lamb in the icebox, and Winry swore under her breath. The feeling of foreboding was growing and her entire body felt on edge –

Whatever it was in her finally shifted: Winry heaved into the sink, watching in horror as her vomit splattered against the dull silver of the pewter, an ugly shade of puce.

Her head jerked towards the lower part of the property. _Alphonse wants lamb._

Her legs took long strides towards the paddocks, her shadow thin and elongated against the last of the sun's light spilling over the ranges. Everything was saturated in gold, and she ignored the shouting she could hear from the house. _Alphonse wants lamb,_ the chattering voices intoned.

It was too quick, too easy to wrangle one of the sheep, to use her weight against the animal. The soft chattering behind her increased as she exposed the plump belly of the Romney, and she felt her arms positioning themselves without her realising she had. The sheep bleated.

The skin of the animal's belly split cleanly under her nails and Winry dimly registered the choked cries before the sheep lay silent, limbs twitching. The blood spilled over her lap, coating her bare thighs in surprising heat. The metallic tang of iron lingered in the warm air and Winry thought she might choke on it.

 _The heart_ , she heard the chattering voices croon, and she felt her arms digging into the sheep, moving aside intestines and kidneys, fingers gripping onto something that felt wholly foreign and familiar.

"Win?" Edward's voice called out, hesitant and soft. She turned towards him eyes pleading with him to see, to _understand_ –

His face paled in the faint dusk settling over the land and he stumbled back a little, a hand covering his mouth in horror. "Winry what the _fuck-_ "

"I have the lamb," she – it – _they_ said as her arm lifted it to glisten in the light of the lamp, before she felt the familiar taste of iron on her tongue and the resistance of new-born muscle against her teeth.


	8. be the water where i'm wading

_for haganenobeato's birthday!_

 _pairing: royai_

 _characters: riza hawkeye, roy mustang_

* * *

It wakes her in the small hours, this feeling. At times Riza can scarcely believe it, curled up under blankets and relishing in the novelty of no longer being alone, not truly. Her husband flush against her back, Hayate curled up at their feet – this is a life that she never even dared to believe could become more than a wistful daydream. She half-expects to be removed from this peaceful existence; there's still so _much_ for them to do and the country that lies outside their threshold will always be hungry for more.

Still, the seconds pass in the bedroom and all Riza can hear are the soft sounds of breathing and the groans of the house as it settles down for another night. She has always been a light sleeper, ever since she was a child, since the war, since she learned that even her own shadow could not be trusted. Her eyes drift to the slim gap where the curtains never meet, watching as clouds pass over the moon in rapid succession.

Roy might be the eternal optimist out of the two of them, but pragmatism would always win at the end of the day.

Beneath her fingers, _his_ fingers, the swooping sensation flutters over her stomach in scant little bursts. She's only just beginning to show, but at the right angle you can see _more_. It doesn't seem real to her, that in another five months they will welcome an impossibly small human into their lives. She doesn't know the first thing about babies – well, she sees them occasionally when out shopping, she's held little Nikolai Rockbell-Elric, and marvelled at his tiny, scrunched-up features – but she still feels lost, adrift without a real sense of where she is and where she'll be going.

Roy's lips are chaste against the skin of her neck. "Did she wake you up again?" he asks sleepily, shifting against her. His fingers link with hers and squeeze lightly. Okay, so not _entirely_ adrift then.

"You don't know that she's a girl," Riza answers. The gender of their child has never been a priority – Riza found herself more terrified with the prospect of waking up in the first trimester in a pool of blood than what they were going to _name_ it, and Roy had been completely diverted by the fact that he was going to have a _child_ that would be _theirs_.

"Of course she's a girl," he mumbles, his arms slipping fully over her torso, pulling her into him. His thumbs rub soothingly against her bare ribs, fingers drift down to her sides. "Every bit as precious and beautiful as the woman carrying her."

She knows he means for his words to soothe, but the guilt gnaws at her, incessant, _insistent._ It will only be a matter of time before they're forced to acknowledge to the public why her duties are being reduced, why her belly continues to swell – but as soon as they do she knows the target will be painted on her back, bright and ripe for the taking. It pulls at her, this blame, that this stab at happiness – a selfish endeavour if there ever was one – could very well spell the end of everything she's worked so hard for. Her fears thus far have been internalised, never spoken aloud – but the process of _externalisation_ , that is where she finds herself truly frightened.

She cannot protect the two of them. Not equally. She knows who she'd choose, every time. Would he hate her? _Loyal to a fault_ , Bradley had once described her as. He didn't know how deep those faults ran.

Roy hums lightly into her skin as his lips map the curve of her neck. It's an old tune that she thinks she remembers – one of their oldest codes, forged under the stifling environment of a domineering father and an empty house. It's a slow rendition with his mouth, compared with his fingers. A hand splays out fully against her belly, tapping a new message. It's hard not to smile as she decodes it, and even harder not to cry as the fluttering feeling returns, strong and consistent.

"She says she knows," Riza manages, swallowing thickly.

"I'd better teach her," he responds after a moment, pride evident in his voice. "Then she can remind you for when I can't."


	9. the kind of love affair

_prompt: this came from some discussions on tumblr about grumman's connection to royai. i'm firmly in the camp that grumman is a shifty person who's out for his own interests before anybody else's, and for that reason i could see him underestimating riza in order to become closer to roy. or vice versa. one day i'll write out the proper cat-and-mouse premise in full, but for now, enjoy the pilot._

 _pairing: royai_

 _characters: riza hawkeye, roy mustang, general grumman_

* * *

The discovery of Riza Hawkeye, daughter of Berthold Hawkeye and daughter of _Caroline Grumman_ is not entirely unexpected, but nonetheless it makes George Grumman pause.

They knew she was with child. It was the whole reason this… _affair_ had spiraled so wildly out of control. Caroline had never been a difficult child in the scheme of things; not like her siblings, certainly - and yet they had all been blindsided by her adoration for a man who seemed to care for little of that around him. Had they tried as much as they ought to have? No. But she was so young - too young, George had assumed, to put her money where her mouth was. He paid for that mistake with his blood.

This time, he vows, he will do better. This war was merely a small skirmish in the grand scheme of things, and George would be damned before he fails to see the stars aligning before they actually do once more.

The East is a mess in the wake of the Civil War. His usual lines of information are all muddled, peppered with dead ends and dead people, so it takes a few weeks for anything reliable to come through. What intelligence he receives is welcome as much as it is worrying. _Close association to Roy Mustang, Hero of Ishval, Flame Alchemist. Accelerated through the academy at the request of CHQ per EON3023 in regards to competent soldiers. Distinguished markswoman._

George sighs, and signs off the paperwork that finalises her tour of Ishval. He needs more information before he can establish any kind of strategy. It would be nice, it would be _simple_ if Riza Hawkeye, daughter of Berthold Hawkeye and daughter of Caroline Grumman, would accept her estranged family back into her life with welcoming arms.

But she is her mother's daughter and her father's daughter through and through. There will be no such clean-cut ending for the two of them.

* * *

It is well into the evening in the office and Roy realises that the strange, nervous energy coating Riza like a second skin has not lessened in the duration of their time alone, long after everyone else has left. He had chalked it up to the formalities of the past few weeks catching up to her: in the space of a month, they have come home from a war zone and jolting at any sudden noise, to parading around the grounds of Eastern Headquarters in full dress uniform, being given awards upon awards enmasse. After what they've seen, what they've just been through, it did not cross his mind that her strange mannerisms were anything out of the ordinary.

 _Their_ ordinary is anything but. The coping mechanisms are perhaps a little more pedestrian, a little more clichéd than some of the stories he hears, but it works for them.

"Let's call it a night, Hawkeye," Roy announces. He omits her title, partly because he still doesn't like how it sits in his mouth, new and crisp and _metallic_ , and partly because they need to pretend their titles don't exist and what they're about to do ignores all the rules that say to _stop_.

She is quiet as they leave the empty hallways of Eastern Headquarters, quiet as he drives them back to his apartment, quiet as she makes milky cups of tea. Roy knows she will talk when she is ready.

His thumbs are worrying over the callouses in her right palm when she finally speaks.

"I learned that General Grumman is my maternal grandfather. He reached out to me earlier this week for a meeting. He wants to make up for lost time."

It does not take much effort to connect the dots. "You don't believe him."

She's resting her head against his shoulder but nonetheless he feels the tell-tale shake of _'no'_. "As I understood it, my father and him were often at odds. It's remarkable how similar they are in spite of that."

"What does he want with you?"

"He wants _you_ ," Riza answers plainly. "I'm sure he had a grand old time constructing a story that's meant to tug on the heartstrings. It doesn't erase the fact that it's built on lies." Her fingers lace with his; she draws the back of his hand to her lips, pressing against the skin intently. "If I isolate myself from him it will hurt you in turn. If we play into this role then we may end up compromised."

Roy sighs deeply and throws his head onto the back of the couch. "He wants power," he surmises after a period of silence. "East isn't exactly a place where names are made. Maybe we can play this to our advantage instead."

"How do you propose that?"

He presses a kiss into her hair. He thinks that if he looks closely enough, he can still spot grains of sand embedded into the skin of her scalp. "We can figure that out tomorrow. You need to rest now." He's slow to extract himself from the slump they've found themselves in on his couch, but Roy knows they'll regret it in the morning if they don't move now. He doesn't bother with the false pretenses of offering to drive her home. Tonight they are just Roy and Riza, exhausted and unwilling to be thrust into another set of political maneuvers.

 _Tomorrow_ they will be prepared.


End file.
